It had been two months since Sherlock Holmes had jumped off of a building, and he didn't realize until the payphone was dialing that he had made a very poor decision. England had moved on. Scotland Yard had moved on. John had moved on.

I can't do this to him, not when he's happy again.

Sherlock reached to hang the phone back up on the hook, ending the call, when he heard the crackle, and then John's voice.

"Hello?"

Panicking, Sherlock affected a French accent.

"Um, hello, monsieur. Is this, er, John Watson?" He already knew the answer. He had only paid pocket change, and he was wasting precious time.

"Er, yes." John sounded sleepy. Sherlock checked his watch. It was only seven in the morning, London time. Sherlock smiled, picturing John yawning and stifling it with the sleeve of one of his jumpers. "Sorry, who is this?"

"Er, it's... Please, consider me a concerned party, yes?"

"Alright." John was annoyed, and Sherlock's first instinct was to text John the picture of an irritated hedgehog, which he always reserved for exactly these sort of occasions. A pang of sadness shot through him as he realized he could never again send John pictures of small Erinaceidaes, purely to bother him.

It was small things like that that hit him, day after day after day.

"Look," John sighed on the other end. "If you're a fan or something, please stop calling. I don't... I'm not... I can't do that anymore. I have to go to work." With that, John hung up, and Sherlock stared at the receiver. His friend, his best friend, still sounded so broken, so hurt.

Regardless, it had been nice to hear his voice.

Stepping out onto the Parisian street, Sherlock's heart hurt. It was a sensation that he had felt all his life, but had only in the past year come to recognize it as Spiral.

It hadn't struck as much when John was living with him. But when John wasn't at the flat, it came, especially at night. That was why he always bothered John to come home.

**Trigger warnings are anything written in bold. So, trigger warning for implied cutting, substance abuse, and eating disorders.**

Because Spirals go inward and downward, which in turn leads to knives, and kneeling over the toilet bowl, or exchanging money in a moonlit street, waking up the next morning regretting it.

Swearing, Shelock turned swiftly on his heel and stepped back into the phone booth, dialing John's number once more.

It went to voicemail.

"Don't give up on me," Sherlock said in his normal voice before he hung up.

That night, he gave in to Spiral for the first time in four months, then cried.

The calls didn't make him feel better. Just a hell of a lot worse.

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After Sherlock returned to 221B, a little over a year later, he and John were rushing to a case, and Sherlock had emerged from the bathroom half naked, shrugging on a shirt as he walked out the door. He felt John, standing behind him, rest his eyes on the scars covering Sherlock's arms and even part of his chest, but neither man said anything until they were halfway to the crime scene. "Sherlock," John said quietly.

"What, John?" Sherlock was focusing. This was the third in a string of seemingly ritualistic murders, and they were frustrating him to no end.

"How'd you get those scars?"

Sherlock stopped dead in the middle of the street. "John, never bring them up again. Please."

John nodded.

Sherlock had no idea that while Sherlock was away, Molly had told him about his previous suicide attempts, and the way Molly's doorstep was always the one he showed up on.

Two years later, John stood to the side, heartbroken, as Shelock married not the love of his life, John, but the only person he'd ever trusted with his darkest corners.

AN: Whoa, fifty reads! Thanks guys! I really appreciate the support ♡♡♡